


The Turn

by JenNova



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Movie Fusion, F/M, Inception Reverse Bang, M/M, Nolanesque
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-13
Updated: 2011-04-13
Packaged: 2017-10-18 00:27:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,762
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/182974
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JenNova/pseuds/JenNova
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arthur Darling would do a lot for his business partner but he’d always found somewhere to draw the line.</p><p>There was, however, nothing he wouldn’t do for La Dame Mallorie Des Ombre.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Turn

**Author's Note:**

> For [Inception Reverse Bang 2011](http://community.livejournal.com/i_reversebang/). And horribly late.
> 
> Prompt: [Nolanesque Prestige](http://go-hedgehog.livejournal.com/53396.html) by go_hedgehog. Who deserved better than me.
> 
> Beta: K, always there to pick-up my mistakes. <3
> 
> Borrowed a few quotes from Messr. Nolan, for veracity's sake.

Arthur came to a halt in a great room lit dimly by green light. Of the distant figure he had been chasing there was no sign, he had a feeling that it may have escaped him several wrong turns previous, and he paused to draw breath.

He moved closer to one of the sources of green light and saw it to be a glass-sided tank, glowing from within in an eerie fashion. There was something within the tank and despite a deep sense within him that told him to stop he moved closer still, examining the form trapped within.

He fell back with a barely contained shout.

It was Cobb. They were all Cobb, as far as Arthur could see, and all dead. Glassy eyes stared out at him from every direction, each corpse suspended as if mid-action when death had come to it, the cool green liquid of the tanks distorting the familiar pallor of Cobb’s skin.

“What in Heaven’s name…” Arthur breathed out slowly, taking cautious steps closer to the nearest tank. “What have you done to yourself?”

He raised a hand to the solid glass; this Cobb had been reaching out when his struggles came to an end, his eyes wide and staring, his mouth frozen open in a desperate shout. The glass felt more real than it should have, than it had any right to.

“This place is not for you,” Mal’s voice, but somehow not, cold and echoing in the long corridor.

Arthur stepped back sharply, almost stumbling in his haste, and it was that which saved him. The knife flashed past his ear and on instinct grabbed for Mal’s wrist, twisting until she dropped the weapon.

“How did you get here?” she demanded, struggling against his grip. “This place is not for you!”

“What happened, Mal?” he asked, trying to turn her head. “Why did you alter the plan?”

“What plan?” Mal’s head snapped around. “Who are you? How dare you come to be here?”

Mal’s eyes, eyes that Arthur had seen graced by laughter and love and sadness and pain, eyes that Arthur sometimes suspected he knew better than anyone save Cobb himself, were maddened in a way he had never seen before.

This was not Mal.

Something was incredibly wrong.

\--

 **From the Society pages of the London Times:**

 _It is understood that La Dame Mallorie Des Ombre has moved her entire household, including her invalid husband, noted American businessman Dominic Cobb, from their property in Hampstead to the United States of America. No reason is known for the move, though it is perhaps of note that Arthur Darling, Cobb’s business partner, has closed their London offices for an indeterminate period of time._

\--

Arthur Darling would do a lot for his business partner but he’d always found somewhere to draw the line.

There was, however, nothing he wouldn’t do for La Dame Mallorie Des Ombre.

He understood that this said a lot to those people who made it their business to study people. He did not care.

\--

The pub was filthy, of course, and Arthur only stopped himself from covering his nose against the stench by knowing how the men around him would react. He attempted to breathe through his mouth and resisted the urge to dust his seat (a rough wooden stool which he would normally have considered unfit even for a child) before sitting. He had worn his third best suit, the dull grey wool with the slight tear in the jacket lining, when he’d discovered which part of London Mal had commanded him into.

Arthur waved a serving girl aside, fluttering her eyelashes at him as if that would be enough to persuade him to spend some time in her ample company, and focused instead on the magician on the stage. The stage was not even fit for that name; a few crates for height and some decidedly crooked planking for performance space but the magician made it work for himself.

His suit was all ragged edges, the shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows were grey with wear, and his cravat was patterned in a manner which offended Arthur’s eyes. All of which was not quite enough to disguise the man’s handsome features: full lips, sparkling eyes and a broad face perfectly designed for dishonest honesty. If Arthur had been the type to consort with thieving street magicians the Magnificent Eames would have been perfection.

The act was nothing quite as impressive as those Arthur had seen on his infrequent excursions to music halls with Mal but he found himself nevertheless engaged in the performance, enjoying himself by attempting to spot the seams around Eames’ tricks. His assistant was a young woman with dark hair fashioned in a Classical Greek manner which Arthur thought was perhaps pushing “Ariadne, from beyond the mysts of tyme” a little too far. She was pretty, as all those assistants were, but there was an edge about her too – she was far more than a costumed distraction.

When the act was finished, Ariadne appearing inexplicably behind the patrons to much applause, Arthur made his way backstage after receiving winking directions from the landlord. He wondered how many were extremely disappointed when she turned them away. Ariadne didn't seem the sort to engage in that particular behaviour. The backstage area was really no more than a narrow corridor with a door which opened onto the midden at one end.

Arthur covered his nose this time and struggled past piles of crates and sacks nebulously labelled ‘VEG’ in faded red stencilling in order to reach the door at the opposite end to the midden.

The so-called ‘dressing room’, which had been indicated by the letters DR in fresh black paint, was in fact an in-use pantry and Eames and Ariadne had shifted as much as they could to one side of the room to make space for their box of tricks. There was a mirror propped against a tower of potatoes and in it Eames was reflected back at Arthur, his shirt open to reveal something harnessed across his ample chest.

Arthur found his mouth suddenly dry.

He traced the edges of the tattoos hidden by the material of the shirt and the supple leather of the harness with his eyes. He had a very vivid vision of following the same path with his tongue. His distraction was enough that he missed the narrowing of Eames’ eyes when he spotted Arthur.

“Don’t look now, Nell,” he said over his shoulder. “I think you have another well-heeled vistor.”

Ariadne looked up from where her hands were buried under Eames’ shirt and snorted indelicately.

“Somehow I doubt he’s here for me,” she said. Arthur was surprised enough by the North American accent that he snapped out of his almost fugue-like state.

“I’m not,” he said, feeling heat rising in his cheeks. “That is – I have a message for Mr. Eames.”

Eames shrugged Ariadne’s hands away and turned to face Arthur. He shifted slightly, seemingly to place himself firmly between Arthur and Ariadne, and folded his arms across his chest. Arthur found himself alarmingly aware of the strength implicit in Eames’ broad shoulders.

“I warn you, Mr. Well-Heeled, although you do not look like my regular visitors,” here he drew his eyes from Arthur’s shoes to his head and gave an impression of being unimpressed. “I will not have any violence done today.”

Arthur blinked in the face of a hostility Mal’s wire had not prepared him for. He folded his own arms and met Eames’ stare.

“I’m certain I don’t know what you’re referring to, Mr. Eames,” Arthur said, radiating calm. “I bear a message from La Dame Des Ombre.”

“Mal?” Eames asked, pleasure transforming his features. “You should have said that at the beginning, man. What is it?”

“A letter, to be specific,” Arthur retrieved the letter from his inner pocket and passed it to Eames, fingers brushing briefly.

Eames read quickly, turning about in circles as he did in an effort to keep Ariadne from reading over his shoulder, his face passing through a multitude of expressions with a fluidity that astounded Arthur. The parade of expressions ended on a thoughtful frown, Eames’ brow furrowed and the letter held loosely whilst he tapped it against his chin.

“You would be Mr. Darling, I presume,” Eames said at last, folding the letter and hiding it away. Arthur nodded. “You’ve already arranged passage, yes? I require a place for Ariadne – I would be lost without her.”

“Passage to where, Eames?” Ariadne asked, suppressing a laugh at the wink which accompanied Eames’ statement. “We have engagements through the next few months.”

“Our schedule has been rather suddenly cleared, my dear girl,” Eames said, eyes fixing on Arthur. “I must visit an old friend. In America.”

\--

Though he had the entire Atlantic crossing to work at the problem Arthur found himself arriving in New York still none the wiser to two things: Eames’ necessity in whatever plan Mal had crafted and why Ariadne spoke with an English accent on stage but was, he’d discovered, Canadian by birth and, along with that, why Eames sometimes called her ‘Nell’ when being particularly affectionate.

One thing he was certain of was that Eames and Ariadne were conducting an affair of some kind, though he never caught them being indiscreet in public – Eames wearing a much superior suit to that which Arthur had first met him in, cut in a flattering fashion, and Ariadne in a fashionable dress of a quality even Mal would admire – there was a fondness between them that Arthur simply could not fathom.

They became an enigma to Arthur, a question without an answer, as they circulated amongst the other passengers – conversing on any topic they were given. Eames in particular seemed as changeable as the weather, able to fit into any conversation with great ease. Mal had been understating Eames’ versatility in her last communication with Arthur and she’d been hesitant to explain her connection in writing.

It was a mystery Arthur felt he did not have the time to explore.

It was when Arthur found himself alone with Eames that his confusion was at its greatest. Eames treated Arthur with a familiarity he hadn’t yet earned and Arthur was _certain_ that the manner in which Eames spoke his name implied a romantic endearment that Arthur hadn’t earned.

“Come take turn about the deck with me, Darling,” Eames murmured to him one evening after supper, at the mid point of their journey. He leant into Arthur, hand resting in the crook of his arm, and the hot breath of his words tickled Arthur’s ear. He barely suppressed a shiver, certain that would give Eames a satisfaction Arthur didn’t wish him to have.

The deck was windswept when they reached it and very few passengers were braving the weather; there were sharp points of rain occasionally sweeping from nowhere.

“You don’t trust me I think, Darling,” Eames said and there again, the intonation that suggested something beyond Arthur’s name.

Arthur walked away from him in an effort to compose himself, leaving shelter in order to cross the deck.

“I don’t know you, Eames,” Arthur said. He rested his hands against the railing and peered down into the water far below him.

“Surely Mal’s word is enough to grant me something at least?” Eames asked, joining him and standing too close.

“Mal has done little to explain to me how and why she trusts you,” Arthur said. “It’s not like her to hesitate. I don’t like it.”

“And she tells you everything, of course,” Eames said, a thread of biting humour in his words. “I suspect you know all about this plan of hers.”

“I know no more than you, Mr. Eames, as you are well aware,” Arthur said, frowning down at the water.

“Is she truly so in love with Cobb that she will risk anything for him?” Eames asked. Arthur looked up at him for the switch in tone. Eames’ expression was completely blank, even his eyes shuttered.

“I’ve never met any two people so well suited and so entirely in love,” Arthur said. “You know she defied her mother over Cobb.”

“I remember seeing it in the society pages,” Eames admitted. “I wouldn’t have believed it of anyone other than Mal.”

“Then you have known her longer than I,” Arthur said.

“You sound envious, Arthur,” Eames said, his expression clearing at last, his mouth turning sly. “Is there perhaps something Cobb should be worried about?”

“I love Mal,” Arthur said, simply. “But I am not interested in stealing my closest friend’s wife. If you knew her so well you would know she will never leave him.”

Eames looked away from Arthur sharply, too sharply for Arthur to understand the emotion that flickered through his eyes, and stare down at the sea.

“Ariadne isn’t her real name, is it?” Arthur asked, giving Eames what mercy he could.

“I suppose that depends your definition of ‘real’,” Eames said after a moment. “Is it the name she was born with? No, of course not, who would name a child Ariadne, that name is too much for any one person to bear. It is, however, the name she has had the longest.”

“You seem very fond of her,” Arthur said carefully.

“She is my saviour,” Eames looked up at Arthur and a smile swept across his face. “I would be lost without her.”

“And what are you to her?” Arthur asked.

“A safe place,” Eames said quietly, his smile fading for a moment. “And someone who encourages her genius. She’s a master with pen, my dear Darling. A master.”

“I will have to take that on your word,” Arthur said, waving a hand.

“Oh, you’ll see for yourself, Arthur, very soon,” Eames smiled.

\--

Arthur fell.

When he stopped falling he found himself in a dark corridor, lit by flickering gas lamps. It smelled of disuse and dust. It was not where he’d expected to be.

(Ariadne had built them a world of glass and light, theorising that the best way to save someone was to bring them into the light. It had been extraordinary – something that only a dreamer could bring to life.)

Arthur reached out to touch the wall, expecting it to yield under his touch, and startled at the roughness of the wood panelling, the slick smoothness of the wallpaper. The light cast his shadows against the surfaces and he distracted himself for a long moment by forming shapes with his hands. If he wasn’t dimly aware of his own sleeping form he would have believed he was awake.

Tesla’s machine was a marvel.

Distant sounds reached his ears, floating on a slight breeze drifting through the corridor. That was the way he walked.

\--

Nikolai Tesla was a strange man of many habits and quirks that seemed artfully designed to hide the cunning intelligence beneath. Arthur couldn’t stop himself from being a somewhat in awe of Tesla, shaking his hand with something akin to reverence.

“He will explain all,” Mal had said when they arrived, kissing Arthur airily on the cheek before turning to greet Eames with a embrace.

It was possible that Arthur _was_ a little envious. The affection Mal showered on Eames was far above that she had ever expressed towards any other friend.

When Mal had ordered the servants away with their luggage she led them into the drawing room. It was much changed from the last time Arthur had been in the New York townhouse – Cobb lay in a high bed by one of the large windows, looking paler than he had when Mal had removed him from London, and beside him was an extraordinary contraption that sparked fitfully as Arthur looked at it.

It was to this contraption that Tesla walked, his gait curiously smooth and regal, when they entered the room. He laid a hand gently upon it, almost lovingly.

“Let’s hear it then,” Eames said, seating himself in a green backed chair. “Why did I cancel several months worth of engagements?”

“Monsieur Tesla,” Mal said, nodding her head before sitting in the chair to the immediate left of Eames. Arthur and Ariadne were left to stand.

“When Mallorie asked me to invent a machine that could save her husband I told her it could not be done,” Tesla began, turning to face them. “Medical science has never quite been with in my purview, as you would say.

“But she did not want something that could literally save his life, she told me. ‘Nikolai,’ she said to me. ‘I am certain that Dominic is in there, trapped inside his own mind, I only wish for a way to rescue him from it.’ This, I though, may be possible. It has taken many months but I believe that this device will enable the rescue Mallorie so wishes to make.”

“What does it do?” Ariadne asked, eyes alight with curiosity.

“There are many theories about what happens to people who are injured in the fashion Mr. Cobb was. One of the more interesting is that they become trapped within a dream world of their sub-conscious’ own designing. Perhaps this is done to keep the mind active whilst the body heals, it is true that many people have reported unusual dreams when awaking after a severe injury, but to that I cannot speak.

“But, if it is true that people fall into a dream state, then could it possible for someone else to enter that dream state? Consciousness seems to be an energy – could that energy not be transmitted from one place to another, like my electricity?”

“You’re saying,” Arthur said, looking from Tesla to Mal and then back again. “You’re saying that your machine can let someone into Cobb’s dreams?”

“With some trial and error, I believe so,” Tesla nodded. “I have done some experiments with my man but they have been riddled with difficulty. I do not believe that we are naturally capable of reaching a deep enough sleep in order to allow transmission.”

“And that is where I shall come in,” someone spoke behind Arthur. He turned to find a dark Indian man behind him, dressed in a thin cotton suit and removing a wide-brimmed hat from his head.

Arthur opened his mouth to ask who the new man was when Eames leapt to his feet with an exclamation of surprise.

“Yusuf?” he asked as he stepped around the chair. “As I live and breathe, I haven’t seen you for five years.”

“I have been busy, Mr. Eames,” Yusuf said, submitting to an enthusiastic handshake. “You could have visited.”

“I haven’t had the freedom,” Eames said, eyes shuttering for the briefest of moments. “You never wrote.”

“And receive one of your near unintelligible missives in return?” Yusuf shook his head with a smile. “I think not.”

“Mr. Yusuf will provide a suitable sedative,” Tesla said, the faintest note of annoyance in his voice. “In the hope that this is the barrier standing before true transmission. He is a very gifted chemist.

“We will experiment away from Mr. Cobb at first, of course, but I have every confidence that we may be prepared for a true attempt within the month. What happens inside Mr. Cobb’s dreams is the province of La Dame. I will leave you to your discussion.”

Arthur had more questions than he could count but Tesla had vanished, taking Yusuf with him, and they were left in the drawing room with Cobb’s quiet breathing the only sound.

“Where did you find the money?” Arthur asked. “Nothing has been drawn from the business accounts.”

“Saito-san agreed to sponsor Nikolai,” Mal said, shifting in her seat to face Arthur. She raised a hand to forestall the protest on the end of his tongue. “I know he is a ruthless man, Arthur, but he has always been strangely fond of Dominic and he offered the money with no contract.”

“That doesn’t sound like Saito,” Arthur said, ignoring the way Mal winced at the mispronunciation of their Japanese business partner’s name. “I’m sure he has reasons beyond inexplicable fondness.”

“Nevertheless,” Mal waved a hand. “The machine has been built now – there is no use worrying at the subject. I have tasks for all of you which I need you to begin immediately.”

“What exactly do you think I can do?” Eames asked, spreading his hands wide. “I have no particular skills in dreaming.”

“I want you to do that which you are best at, my dear Eames,” Mal said, smiling and briefly erasing the tiredness that hung about her clouds from her face. “Act.”

\--

The corridor opened onto a stage which was at least familiar, this had been part of Ariadne’s design. The balcony was higher than it would have been in a true theatre and the plants positioned to create the illusion of a garden had, in fact, _grown_ into a garden. It felt more elaborate than it had when they experimented within Mal’s dreams, there was a depth that hadn’t been present before and a richness of detail that felt almost unreal.

It seemed that Cobb’s dreaming mind was fighting against the world they were trying to press onto it – occasional flashes of glass appeared in Arthur’s peripheral vision as he walked through the theatre stalls that had suddenly formed around him.

He caught his breath when he came close enough to see the performers – one of them was, as Mal had hoped, Cobb, mumbling his way through Romeo’s lines in a manner which was so familiar Arthur found himself almost laughing with relief. The other, Cobb’s Juliet high above him, was Mal or rather, Arthur hoped, Eames as Mal. The replication was perfect.

(Eames had objected when Mal explained her plans for him but not, as Arthur may have thought, to portraying a woman – even though none of them had understood how such a thing would be possible at the time – but to the source material. It amused Arthur to discover that Eames, who had been an actor long before he was a magician, had a deep abiding hatred for Romeo and Juliet.)

Arthur settled into a seat in the front row, keeping his eyes as closely on Cobb as he could when Eames was putting Mal’s heart and soul in Juliet’s prose. The distraction was working, he felt, when Cobb’s image flickered.

Arthur blinked and focused harder, certain he could not have seen what he thought he had. Cobb’s form flickered again and Eames-as-Mal’s performance stuttered. There was a flicker of something in the too-real garden, two eyes that met Arthur’s and Arthur felt a fear he had not expected to in this place of dreams.

“Arthur!” Eames’ voice from Mal’s mouth. Arthur leapt to his feet as he realised that Cobb had completely disappeared. “Cobb’s gone.”

“If he was ever really here,” Arthur said. He looked for the sharp eyes again and they were gone too, replaced by a definite shifting of plants as someone pushed through them. With no thought at all Arthur pulled himself up onto the stage and dove into the foliage, ignoring Eames’ shouts behind him.

\--

The first time they dreamt successfully they used Eames’ dreams as a gathering point. They were as garish as Eames could sometimes be and busier than Arthur had thought dreams could be. His own dreams were very sedate affairs, often filled with the things he had been doing throughout the day, though they had taken a more improper turn since Eames had entered his life.

Ariadne touched everything she could see, marvelling at how almost-real the textures felt and how solid the walls were. There was a small amount of give in anything that was supposed to be a structure and when they sat on some hastily prepared chairs Arthur had an odd sensation of sinking into them just a little too far.

He had no task here, not in the way Eames and Ariadne did, and he enjoyed himself by following Ariadne as she created new shapes in London’s streets. Eames had disappeared with Mal, presumably to see if he could mimic her features in the dream world as well as he could mimic her mannerisms in the waking world.

Even Ariadne tired of the relentless creation after a while and they took seats in a strangely compressed Trafalgar Square, a spiralling Nelson’s Column stretching out above them at Ariadne’s command. She swung her legs as she explained to Arthur how it felt – he’d tried to alter a few things around himself but he found he lacked the imagination to do anything particularly interesting.

“You must be very happy,” Arthur said quietly, interrupting the beginnings of what he was certain was a lecture about 16th century Italian architecture.

“It’s pure creation,” Ariadne said, shrugging. Arthur shook his head.

“That’s not what I mean,” he said. “With Eames – he must make you happy.”

“Eames makes everyone happy,” Ariadne said with another shrug. “He has that way about him.”

“I don’t think you –” Arthur stopped himself before he asked something indecorous. “He calls you Nell sometimes – is your real name Ellen?”

“How did you? No, of course, Eames told you, he trusts easily,” Ariadne shook her head but her words were laced with fondness. “There’s a lot of – bad memory – associated with that name for me. I only allow Eames to call me Nell because he’s the one who saved me.”

“He calls you his saviour,” Arthur said.

“He also insists on behaving as though his ‘I’d be lost without her’ joke is humorous,” Ariadne said with a snort. “Maybe we saved each other. Eames is – important to me. I love him like the brother I never had.”

“He would make a fine husband,” Arthur found himself saying without intention. Ariadne laughed so hard that Arthur was afraid she would injure herself.

“It may have escaped your notice,” she said when she had regained some control over herself. “Eames isn’t the sort of man who marries.”

“Are my ears burning?” Arthur looked up at the voice and saw two Mals before him. The only reason he knew which one had spoken with Eames’ voice was the way in which Mal was covering a laugh with her hand.

“I think Arthur believes we should marry,” Ariadne said. Arthur felt heat rising in his ears, just as it would in the waking world. Mal didn’t disguise her laugh this time as Eames faded back into his own form.

“A very kind thought,” Eames said, nodding. “Were I to marry any woman it would most certainly be Ariadne –”

“What makes you think I would accept?” Ariadne asked with a smile.

“Hush you, of course you would,” Eames waved a hand airily. “But Ariadne will already have informed you, darling, that marriage is not something I’ve ever intended to engage in.”

“She may have said something,” Arthur said, unable to look away from Eames’ bright eyes.

Eames opened his mouth to say something more and that, mercifully, was when Yusuf chose to wake them. Arthur made a solemn vow to himself, upon waking, to avoid Eames for as long as was possible.

\--

Arthur released the wrong-Mal and ran, terrified by the madness in the apparition’s eyes and equally as terrified by the host of dead Cobb’s around him. He ran in no particular direction, cutting left and right as he felt, and all around him it seemed as if he could hear shouts; of the wrong-Mal and of Eames as he pursued Arthur.

Where was Mal, the Mal Arthur knew must be in this dream world somewhere, the Mal who was searching for her husband? Had she already found him and left Arthur and Eames trapped with Cobb’s dreams?

But, no, Tesla had theorised that the dream world would break up if the dreamer was awoken and a series of experiments with Yusuf had proved this to be accurate. Mal could not have found Cobb.

What if she had been attacked by the wrong-Mal as well? Arthur could barely face the thought.

There was a door ahead of him, lined with bright light, and Arthur darted through it, finding himself blinded on the other side. When his vision cleared he found himself in the room that Ariadne had designed, that they had each studied until they could recall it in precise detail. The glass walls and ceiling, the smooth white tiles of the floor, the light pouring in from all directions.

Something was different, though, wrong. They had hoped to find Cobb here, possibly in the same bed he was sleeping in in the waking world, before they began the play which would hopefully remind him what he had to wake up for. Instead Cobb was strapped to vertical gurney, like those Arthur had seen in exhibits of asylum treatments, his head hanging limply forwards.

“Cobb?” Arthur said. It came out in a whisper, barely audible, but Cobb raised his head wearily. His eyes widened when he saw Arthur. “Dom?”

“Arthur – how did – no, please tell me she hasn’t found something else,” Cobb’s voice was cracked and broken, a shadow of what it had been.

“Dom, Dom,” Arthur took several quick steps forwards, crossing the room quicker than he should have been able to, and reached his hands out to support some of Cobb’s sagging wait. “You’re speaking nonsense.”

“Arthur,” Cobb said, eyes wild in his face. “You feel…real.”

“I am really, dammit,” Arthur cursed. “Can you not see that?”

“Arthur,” Cobb said weakly, his eyes focusing behind Arthur’s shoulder.

Arthur felt a sharp pain at the back of his head and heard something crack.

Then all was dark silence.

\--

“I think I finally understand you, Darling,” Eames said, breaking Arthur’s personal boundaries seemingly without a thought.

Arthur wondered idly when he’d began to notice the difference between Darling-with-a-capital and darling-without. It was something in the way Eames spoke, he thought. He had long given up on asking Eames to mind his own boundaries.

“I don’t believe there is much to understand, Mr. Eames,” Arthur said, shifting away. Eames had followed him into the garden after supper, leaving Ariadne and Yusuf to particular involved conversation about the state of Indian science.

“On the contrary, Arthur,” Eames said, following Arthur still. “You are much more than you would have a person believe. I think you’re so accomplished at it, in fact, that you even have yourself convinced.”

“You speak nonsense, Eames,” Arthur gave up on eluding Eames and took a seat on a weathered bench. Eames, as expected, sat down beside him, so close that their thighs touched. Eames was warm.

“I do,” Eames said, nodding. “But not about people. And here is what I think you need me to say to you: I have no romantic interest in dearest Ariadne. She reminds me far too much of my youngest sister and I am not from that sort of family.”

Arthur had made some investigations upon arriving in New York and had uncovered some of Eames’ history. The man who often dressed as a pauper was the third son of a prominent Baron. He was disgraced, of course, and had no access to the fortune of his family but from what Arthur’s contacts said Eames’ relatives were quietly proud of their infamous son.

“The second thing I want to make perfectly clear to you is this:” Eames placed a hand on Arthur’s knee, warm and heavy. “Even if Ariadne did not remind me of my favourite relative – I would still have no interest in her. Do you understand my intentions?”

Arthur met Eames’ eyes, expecting them to be laughing, they were serious, perhaps as serious as Arthur had ever seen them in their short acquaintance. Eames’ hand shifted so that his fingers splayed over Arthur’s thigh. Arthur felt his blood heat all at once.

“Yes,” he said, swallowing dryly. Eames smiled.

“Good,” he said. He his other hand to Arthur’s cheek and cupped it, turning his head more fully to Eames.

Arthur leant in before Eames could complete his action, catching Eames’ lips with his own, and the world be damned if he let something of a sigh out as they kissed. Eames’ fingers flexed against Arthur’s leg, tightened as Arthur threaded his tongue between Eames’ lips to lick his mouth open. Eames made a delightful sound in the back of his throat and Arthur hummed in reply.

\--

Arthur awoke with a start, hoping to see Yusuf’s friendly face above him. Instead he was looking into the maddened eyes of the wrong-Mal, the Mal that was a shadow of the one he knew. He was tied to a chair quite tightly, no give in any of the bonds.

“You are awake. Good,” she backed away, humming to herself. Arthur studied her; the way she moved without Mal’s grace, the destruction of a dress that she was wearing, a dress that had once been Cobb’s favourite, the blood on her hands.

“Dominic is not allowed visitors,” she said, crossing to trace a hand along Cobb’s cheek. Cobb flinched away. “He is not allowed anything.”

Shadow-Mal’s accent was thicker than Mal’s and her words much more precise. Arthur wondered at himself for not instantly recognising her as something out of place.

“He doesn’t deserve anything, does he?” Shadow-Mal continued, grabbing Cobb’s chin and holding him in place. In the other hand she held a knife, trailing it over Cobb’s ribs. “It is his fault that we are trapped here. He brought this on himself.”

“Mal,” Cobb said, a plea. The knife pressed in briefly before Shadow-Mal pulled away, facing Arthur again.

“You saw our friends, in the Great Room,” she said, waving a hand. “So many friends. Friends that I made so that Dominic could understand what he’s done to me.”

Cobb let out a sob.

“Cobb,” Arthur hissed. “Dom. It’s not real, Dom.”

“My fault,” Cobb said. “My punishment.”

Shadow-Mal laughed. It was a much darker laugh than Arthur knew and it made him shiver. Cobb had created a gifted torturer for himself. Arthur had always known that Cobb had some foolish ideas about what he’d ‘done’ to Mal when she defied her family for him – he’d had no idea they could manifest in such a way.

The door that Arthur had entered through opened again, this time admitting another Cobb. Arthur blinked – there was something imprecise about this Cobb, though he was dressed as all the others in the tanks, he walked with an unfamiliar gait as though he was unsure on his feet.

 _Eames_.

Shadow-Mal turned with confusion, shifting from one foot to another, as Eames-as-Cobb approached. He was trying to move with a confidence he didn’t possess and Arthur was convinced that the shade would notice.

“I did not make a new friend for us today,” Shadow-Mal said, taking several steps towards Eames-as-Cobb. “Not when I have a new toy to teach Dominic with. Where did you come from.”

“Where do you think, darling?” Eames-as-Cobb said in a truly horrible attempt at an American accent.

“Wait – you are not –” Shadow-Mal whirled away but Eames-as-Cobb had already reached out for her. He leapt forwards and caught her about the waist as she tried to run. She struggled, bringing the knife down against his arm. Eames grunt with pain and lost his Cobb form. Shadow-Mal stabbed again and Eames released his grip, swearing loudly and backing away.

“Too many visitors!” Shadow-Mal screeched, her face ugly with anger. Arthur looked sharply to his left when he heard a thudding noise and saw Cobb on the floor, already curling around himself defensively.

“You will never have to worry about hosting again,” Mal stepped out from behind Cobb’s gurney, a knife in one hand a pistol in the other. She raised the pistol coolly.

Shadow-Mal lunged towards her, knife soaked with Eames’ blood raised high above her head, and Mal pulled the trigger without blinking. The shade dropped to the floor in a heap, crumbling into nothingness.

“That’s my girl,” Eames said quietly. He was beside Arthur now, fumbling with the ropes knotted around his wrists.

Arthur watched Cobb look up at Mal with a mixture of fear and disbelief. She dropped the knife and the gun and knelt beside him, pressing her forehead to his. Cobb sobbed and sank into her embrace. Arthur looked away.

“Disguising yourself as a man you’ve never met?” Arthur asked, rubbing against his wrists with his hands when Eames had freed them.

“Well, one mustn’t be afraid to dream a little bigger, Darling,” Eames said, winking. Arthur shook his head and restrained a laugh.

“You are waiting for a train,” Mal was saying when Arthur turned back. She whispered the words against Cobb’s temple, lifting the pistol with the hand that wasn’t cradling him against her. “A train that will take you far away. You know where you hope this train will take you. But you cannot know for sure. It doesn't matter. Why?”

“Because we will be together,” Cobb returned. Mal smiled, tears glistening in her eyes, and pulled the trigger. Cobb sagged in her arms and Mal choked back a sob.

“Now what?” Eames asked, touching a hand to Arthur’s shoulder.

“We wake up,” Arthur said.

And they did.

\--

“It’s almost certain to be dangerous in there,” Eames said as he settled into the chair beside Arthur’s. “We have no way of knowing if this will work in the same fashion.”

“We’re as prepared as we can hope to be,” Arthur said, making himself comfortable. “If we follow the plan we should be safe.”

“And what if we are attacked? If your friend has truly turned against himself?” Eames asked as Yusuf hovered over him, preparing his arm for the large needle laid on the table between them.

“Then we shall lead them on a merry chase,” Arthur smiled, touching the back of his hand to Eames’. Yusuf snorted.

“You would come back for me, if anything happened, wouldn’t you?” Eames asked and for once his question was entirely honest.

“Go to sleep, Mr. Eames,” Arthur said, briefly twisting his fingers with Eames’. Eames smiled at him as Yusuf injected the sedative.

“Your turn,” Yusuf said when he was satisfied that Eames was safely sedated. “Good luck, Mr. Darling.”

“Thank you,” Arthur said, barely feeling the scratch of the needle.

Then nothing.

\--

Arthur woke with Eames’ hand gripped tightly in his. Eames was looking down at their hands with a small smile, one that Arthur had only seen once before. It made him warm to his core.

“I thought you were going to rip his hand off,” Ariadne said from her perch on the footstool in front of them. “What happened in there?”

Arthur shuddered and released Eames hand, standing up quickly. He paced the room once, eyes briefly flicking over to Mal and Cobb, entwined together on his invalid bed as she repeated over and over: “It’s real. It’s real.”

His eyes fell on Tesla’s machine.

“Don’t,” Eames said, catching his arm as he stepped towards it.

“I wasn’t –” Arthur stopped himself.

“I can read you well enough to know what you were about to do,” Eames said, speaking quick and low. “Don’t do it Arthur, this machine, it’s too important.”

“Just think what someone could do with this if that had improper intentions,” Arthur hissed. “If you can bring someone back from a sleeping death who is to say you couldn’t do something more? Change someone’s mind? Steal their mind away from them? It’s too dangerous.”

“It’s a wonder, Arthur, think of the good –” Arthur tore himself our of Eames grip and strode over to the machine. He began pulling parts of it out, those that he knew posed no electrical threat to him, then he reached for a heavy object to smash the thing to pieces.

In his mind’s eye he saw Eames’ face contorted with pain when Shadow-Mal’s knife had bitten into his flesh. He still had the sense memory of being bound to the chair, God only knew how much pain Eames must have been in.

Eames, to his credit, didn’t stop him until he began to tear at it with his hands again, cutting his fingers on wires and sheets of metal.

“Enough now, enough,” Eames said, pulling Arthur away. “It’s destroyed, Arthur.”

“I don’t want you hurt,” Arthur said.

“Well, with you to protect me, I’m sure I never will be,” Eames said, his voice a mixture of serious and jocular.

Arthur met Mal’s eyes over Cobb’s head and she mouthed one word, _merci_. Arthur nodded.


End file.
